Worst Nightmare
by Diana Lucifera
Summary: Dreams really do come true. [Brother's Blood 'verse]


Sorry for the delay, guys! Hope you all had a great new year's celebration. Please take the time to leave a review if you enjoy the fic!

* * *

This is a nightmare.

Sammy's dreams coming true, really, actually, for-sure coming true, but not in the fun, 'Doublemint twins in nothing but Doublemint' way, but more like the 'seeing murder in your head and then tearing across three states to find out that Sammy saw it all coming while he was drooling on a Missouri pillow' way, the way that means these dreams of Sammy's definitely aren't dreams but something more, something that lines up with the way he dreamed of Jess burning, the way he knew their old house was coming up poltergeist, the way he sensed Mom, saw her in that wall of fire before Dean could even pick out that there was a person in there, the way he recognized her before she even stepped out, blonde and beautiful and just like Dean remembers her, pale and perfect and surrounded by flames too clear to be real.

And sure, this one could just be a hell of a coincidence. Could be a mix of bad Mexican and some schmuck kicking the bucket in the wrong place at the wrong time, but Dean knows Sammy, knows that solid, steady certainty that settles over the kid when he's absolutely sure that he's got something pinned, that he's on the right track.

Sammy's dreams are getting bloodier. Realer. Coming true and coming true faster. Like, to-the-minute faster. Five alarm, hit the bricks, 'drive faster, Dean' faster, and goddammit, he hit the bricks. Didn't question Sammy when he said to pick up, to not bother with the bill and hit the road and push his Baby for all she's worth to hit Nowhere, Michigan before dawn, for all the fuckin' good it did, cause they pull up just in time to see Sammy's nightmare in living color, cops wheeling the vic out on a stretcher, neighbors watching with shocked, scandalized, greedy eyes, circling the tragedy, drinking it in like goddamn vultures while a pale, shaking woman in a faded sweater dabs her eyes and talks to the fuzz.

Dean doesn't need to ask to know that this is exactly what Sammy saw, right down to the goddamn license plate.

So, turns out in addition to being part giant and crazy smart, Sammy could give Miss Cleo a run for her money.

"Hell of a hidden talent," is all that runs through Dean's head, all that really registers with him as Sam turns to him after this big ass revelation, begs him not to look at him like that, which, like what?

Like he's some kind of freak? Newsflash: They live out of a car and hunt monsters for a living.

Their lives are killing shit and scratching a notch in America's biggest ball of twine every time they pass it (Sam's up to six, Dean's at nine). Filling out credit card applications with one hand and digging through Sumerian ritual texts with the other, one of them scamming bikers out of their hard-stolen scratch while the other orders another round and scans the obits for the next case, the next mission, the next evil son-of-bitch that needs killing. And they've never had a lease or a dog or a waffle iron or a relationship outside of the family, outside of the job, that's lasted more than a few months, that didn't crash and burn with a kill count.

They both knew how to hide a body so no one'd every find it before they'd started shaving. Knew how to slap together a decent fake ID before they'd even been old enough to take a Driver's Exam.

They're better at field stripping artillery in the dark than they are at doing laundry.

Seriously. Winchester guns don't jam, but last week, Sam accidentally turned all their whites a sad, sickly blue-grey when he tried to separate loads and research spirit possession at the same time.

So yeah. Freak is relative.

And okay, Sammy has visions. Maybe a little weirder than your average party trick, but what? Dean's gonna draw the line here? Gonna say this is where the buck stops when he's got two dozen vamp bites up and down his body? When he can't look at the kennels in fucking Petsmart without getting a little shiver down his spine, without feeling cold, steely-strong fingers grabbing his wrist, dragging him to the edge of cage, pulling so hard the rebar digs in to his shoulder, into his cheek as that bastard just _bites_, digs in to the quick and drags Dean's strength out of him through his bleeding, broken skin, sucks him down like a fucking smoothie, leaves him white and shaking and furious, the vamp's bites bloody and bruising up and down his arms like sick, twisted takes on hickies.

Sam's willing to let that go fucking unmentioned? Dean's willing to write this whole stepping up from dreaming freaky shit weeks in advance to dreaming freaky shit _hours_ in advance thing off as just another weird-ass fact of their weird-ass lives.

Come on, what's the alternative? He's supposed to lose his cool? Decide that this, this of all the crap that they've seen and done together, is the line? The straw of freaky that broke the camel's back?

It's Sam.

Sammy.

His baby brother.

Sammy, who pulled him out of that goddamn cage, who damn near killed himself pumping the life back into Dean. Sammy who saved his bacon from that fugly-ass scarecrow in apple country, who wouldn't take 'terminal' for an answer after that Taser set Dean on his ass, who spends more days at Dean's elbow than not, bitching about his car and his music and his food and his fiber intake, who spends more nights in Dean's bed than out, wrapped around him like a clingy, drooly octopus, shaking with nightmares that just won't let him be, not until Dean scritches a hand through the soft, sensitive curls at the base of his neck, doing his job, watching out for his little brother, even in sleep.

'Cause it's Sammy.

Sammy, who promised him the dream, his and Dean's and _theirs_, the house and the life and the family, all wrapped up in a bow, only to have it burn away with a sweet girl in a white nightie who baked like an absentminded angel and wouldn't take any of their crap. Sammy, who lost the only home he'd ever managed to scrape together 'cause Dean screwed up, 'cause his dumbass big brother couldn't get his shit together.

Sammy, who's gonna carry scars, inside and out, for the rest of his life because Dean just can't ever keep from fucking up.

And who, for some damn reason, keeps saving his ass anyway.

This is Sammy. Sammy who's the first face Dean sees in the morning, the last face he sees at night, who only ever wanted to be normal, only ever wanted to be safe but just can't seem to fucking manage either, who hates that all of his worst nightmares are coming true, one at a time, and Dean hates it too, hates it for him, hates that trying to give Sam normal, to give him safe and happy and the white picket fence, just keeps crashing and burning in the most horrifying ways possible, because now he's not even normal by their crazy, fucked up definition of the word, and Dean can see it, see in Sammy's eyes that he's terrified, shaking at the thought of becoming a freak among freaks, an outcast of the outcasts, of being left, abandoned, completely alone.

But that's not gonna happen.

Psychic or no, spoonbender or no, Sammy is Dean's, and that's never going to happen.

Dean might not have a whole lot in this world outside of hunting, outside of grit and grime, revenge and struggle and saving as many poor bastards as he can from the twisted shit that haunts the shadows. He might not have a girl or a clean slate or money that he didn't con out of someone, somewhere.

But he has Sam.

Sammy. His little brother. His family, his one bright spot, his one solid, sure good thing, at his side and at his shoulder. His job, his deal, his mission, all wrapped into a too-tall frame with puppy dog eyes and an Ivy League brain that's just as good at ID-ing kill-happy creepy-crawlies as it is tearing apart Zeppelin lyrics and lashing out with low-blood-sugar bitchery when he skips too many goddamn meals.

And hell if that's not all he needs.

And this? This whole psychic dream thing? This Dean can handle. Can put right beside "Cut him off at Triple Red Eye number three" and "Watch him around sharp objects when I'm getting a little blood loss-y" in his mental Sam-o-dex and move the fuck on.

'Cause this isn't his nightmare.

It's Sam's.

Sammy, who always, always wanted the normal life, the dog and the picket fence and the sweet, blonde girl on his arm, smiling and baking and stretching up on her toes to kiss him hello (but not too far. Jess, God love her, legs for days and height to burn,) when he got back from nine-to-fivin' it.

He always wanted that, dreamed of it the way Dean's never been able to dream of anything.

Or at least, anything outside of the job. Outside of fighting the things in the dark with Sammy at his side, and what does it say, what does it say about his fucked up soul that Sammy's worst nightmare was Dean's best possible scenario for their lives? Was all he could come up with for what he wanted, before Sammy came in and dangled hunting and home, having a life and a purpose, picket fences and salt lines twisting and twining together so perfect and so possible and right _there_, right until searing sulfur and scorching flames devoured everything, tore it down and burnt it up and left Sam shaking and miserable and Dean with everything he ever wanted sooty and tear-stained at his feet.

And Sam doesn't want him to look like this? Like how? Like he'd give anything, anything he has, to keep this from happening to his little brother? To keep the last, little shred of normal the kid had from being torn away from him?

Fucking tough.

This is what Dean looks like when his brother's world comes crashing down around his ears, when he has to watch as the kid takes hit after hit, no rest, no reprieve, nothing but the next fight, the next low, the next body blow from whatever fucked up force of nature that loves screwing with them so very much.

This is what he looks like when he's wishing like hell that Sammy didn't have to be goin' through this. When he wants like he's never wanted anything before for this to be just some fucked up goddamn dream.

This is what he looks like when he's thinking how much better his brother's life would be, how much happier Sammy would be, if he woke up tomorrow at Stanford, Jess cooking in the kitchen and a day full of not-at-all-paranormal nerdery before him, no monsters or mayhem or psychic fucking awakenings.

This is what he looks like when he hates their lives, not for his sake, but for Sam's.

* * *

It's not until this shit starts happening during the day that Dean starts getting freaked.

'Cause now it's not dreams anymore, it's Sammy wincing and rubbing at his forehead and then suddenly crumpling in on himself, crying out and grabbing his head like it's gonna split the fuck open, like whatever's in there is clawing, slicing, fighting its way out, dragging Dean's brother down and under and away, far away, somewhere Dean can't possibly reach him, can't protect him, can only hold on, tight as he can, to the only good thing he's got in this world as God only knows what nightmare takes over, forces its way into Sammy's mind, drags him through Hell and hurt and horror for what must only be a few minutes, but feels like years, ages, a lifetime, then fades, falls back. Leaves Sam to claw his way to the surface again, shaking and clammy in Dean's arms and sure, so sure that if they don't book it, don't hit the road right the hell now, the stiff's brother's head's gonna get taken off by a _window_ of all goddamn things.

And yesterday? Yesterday Dean'dve called him crazy. Would have rolled his eyes and brushed it off and moved them along, but Jim Miller's dead and Sammy's got that determined, dead-set look in his eyes that means he's gonna hate himself, blame himself for the rest of his natural life if he can't come through this time, can't save this one, can't be going through this for _something_.

And Dean gets that, understands it in his bones.

So even though Sammy's still white and shaking, still hurting and unsteady and breaking out in the cold, clammy sweat of fear as he forces himself to stand, to fight, even though Dean wants nothing more than to sit his ass down, to force feed the kid soup and grilled cheese until he looks like he wouldn't lose a fight with a stiff breeze, until all this crazy just goes away, he snags his keys, burns rubber to Roger Miller's apartment, gets them there just in time to see a motherfucking window go full Gallagher on the guy's melon.

And the worse part of all of this?

It's not the middle-aged asshole who just sort of ends at the neck now. Dean might be a horrible person for thinking that, but come on. The guy was a dick, wouldn't listen to their warning, and got his number punched because of it.

No, the worst part is that all this shit is putting Sammy through the wringer. It's hurting him, scarin' the hell out of him, leaving him white and shaking long after the pain from the vision fades, long after he stops rubbing his head like any second whatever is sleeping inside of him is gonna hijack his noggin again, treat him to another fun round of murder and mayhem he's always gonna be just too late to stop.

And it's supposed to be Dean's job, his mission, to take care of anything that's giving Sammy trouble, to hunt down anything that makes his goddamn day anything other than sunshine and fucking rainbows and rip it's fucking lungs out, but he can't, because this isn't a monster or creature or some dick giving Sammy trouble in the fucking lunch line, it's something _in_ him, something they don't understand, can't control.

Something that has Dean wondering, just for one awful, traitorous second, if they might be in over their heads with this thing.

But that's not even something he can allow, not even something he can let himself think might be true.

They're them, and sure they're scratchin' their heads now, got no leads, no direction, but this shit started a couple of hours ago. They're right at the beginning, and Sammy's got a pretty vested goddamn interest and one of the best hunting brains on the planet and Dean on his side and at his back all the motherfucking way, so if there are answers out there, if there is any way to piece together this goddamn puzzle at all, they'll figure it the fuck out.

Until then, he'll do his fucking job. Figure out this fucking case and save the rest of the goddamn Millers and get Sammy from here to the bottom of this goddamn psychic thing in one fucking piece.

Preferably with three squares in his stomach and a smile of his face, but there's tall orders and then there's goddamn near impossible, especially with the case goin' like it's goin', so on that one he'll take what he can fucking get.

Right now, Dean'd be happy with getting any reaction out of Sammy at all, anything other than tense, pained, frustrated silence as they come up short over and over again.

"You holdin' up okay?" Dean probes when they're done scrubbing their prints from Roger Miller's fire escape, when they've hauled ass back to the motel and made sure the cops were tipped off and come down from the hour or so of twitchy, adrenaline-fueled high alert that comes with ditching a murder scene, blood on your hands and license plates in full view and never knowing who could be watching, who could have seen, who could be coming for your ass any second.

"You're really asking me that?" Sam scoffs, shooting Dean an incredulous look as he hurriedly goes through the police reports, the history of the property, everything they've got on the family, for what must be the dozenth time, trying and failing to find some connection, some explanation, some reason all this shit is happening.

Dean shrugs, rests a hip on the desk beside Sam, and holds his gaze.

"What do you want me to say?" Sam demands, throwing his pen down on the few, sad, useless notes he's been able to make on the Millers and their completely normal not-at-all-cursed-until-yesterday lives. "I'm fine? I'm okay? I'm seeing people die here, Dean, and it's getting worse! It's more painful, more powerful, more- more intense, every time! I mean, tell me this isn't freaking you out here, because it's sure scaring the hell out of me!"

"It's not freaking me out," Dean shakes his head, getting a solid, steadying hand on Sammy's shoulder. "Promise, Sammy."

"How can that be true, Dean?" Sam presses, looking up at him, fraying, desperate, practically begging for answers Dean hates that he can't give him. "How?"

"'Cause you're my pain-in-the-ass little brother," Dean shrugs, pasting on the ghost of a smile and tousling Sam's hair. "If you weren't finding some way to be the special snowflake in the family, I'd probably die of shock."

Sam gives a miserable little half-laugh that kills Dean, stabs him right in the gut for all that it fades as his little brother's shoulders slump, as he leans into Dean's hand in hair, looks up at him from beneath tousled, tangled bangs, suddenly looking lost and scared and all of six years old.

"What's happening to me, Dean?" he asks, barely managing a whisper. "Why am I seeing all this?"

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean admits after a long pause, digging his fingers through the tangled, curling hair at the nape of Sam's neck and hating himself, hating that he doesn't have anything better, anything more, anything that could fucking help.

"But whatever it is, I'm right here, okay?" he presses, holding Sam's eye and hoping, hoping to God that his brother gets this, that it sinks somewhere deep in him and stays, because it's not fucking much, not an answer or a solution, but goddammit, it's all he has. "I got your back. No matter what."

And Christ, Sammy looks so fucking relieved and so fucking grateful and so fucking tired as he nods, sighs and tilts his head into Dean's fingers in his hair, so full of worry and pain. He shouldn't have to be going through any of this shit, shouldn't be slumping into Dean after being forced by whatever is giving him these goddamn visions to watch these people die, shouldn't have to wake up tomorrow and do it all over again, not after the shit he's been through.

"'Course," Dean shrugs, straightening and tugging Sam up from his chair, giving him a pointed nudge towards the bed, "anytime you wanna use your new party trick to take a peek at the Powerball numbers, maybe get me Jessica Alba's cell…"

"You're an idiot," Sam scoffs, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as he steals the pillow from Dean's bed, still covered with half-cleaned guns, and drags the camo blankets on his own firearm-free bunk down, but Dean can see the smile hiding at the corner of his little brother's mouth.

It's tired and faint, worn thin around the edges, but definitely real. Definitely there, a flash of white, one of those damn dimples just peeking out, something for Dean to hold on to, to give him purpose, direction in navigating the fucking minefield that is their life.

"You love it," Dean tosses back, snagging his pillow from Sam and thwapping him in the head with his gun-cleaning rag.

He's already racking his brain for breakfast joints on the way to the Miller's place that wouldn't raise an eyebrow at a couple of too-good-looking priests ordering enough food for a parish and paying with cash, as Sam shucks his jeans and burrows into the blankets, shifting restlessly on the sagging motel mattress until Dean drops down to sit on the edge, scoots back until he can feel the warm, frustrated wall of brother behind him as he cleans and double checks the slide on Sam's Taurus. He doesn't miss how the muscles in Sammy's back unclench, start to relax the second he can feel Dean behind him, there for him, no matter what nightmares are waiting up ahead. Feeling that, having that little bit of confirmation that his being here helps, it settles Dean, clears away the 'what if's and 'maybe's and makes everything so, so much simpler, if only for a little while.

Taking care of Sammy. At least he can get this right.

* * *

'Course, next chance he gets, he fucks that up, too.

Screws them and the spoonbending psycho right out of the gate with a tacky hall mirror and an untucked shirt, and it sends the unstable little asshole from skittish to on-top-of-the-clocktower crazy in an instant, which is not okay because now Sammy's trying to get him to leave the room with Dean's gun still trained on his face and a murderous little nutbag with his sweaty, twitchy fingers on the trigger.

And Dean doesn't care how much he screwed up, that is not happening.

Sam is his brother. His too big, too smart, too psychic brother, and he's got a gun in his face and sweat still running down his neck, still beading at his temples from the goddamn vision that led them here, so hell, _hell_ if Dean walks out of this room and leaves him alone with this psycho, promise or no.

But now Sam is tugging on Dean's arm, shifting him, keeping him back, calming Max with gentle words and smooth, steadying negotiation, and Max is listening to him, paying attention, letting the gun dip a fraction, but if Dean so much as breathes in his direction, it makes the psychotic little shit ratchet his crazy up to eleven again and start waving Dean's goddamn gun around like it's goin' out of style.

And hell if he ever leaves Sam in the lurch, hell if he's ever gonna not have his baby brother's back when he needs him, but it looks like his being here's only gonna make things worse, and yeah, there's an innocent woman in the next room who needs lookin' after, and yeah, he made a promise to Sammy to follow his lead, to let him take point with the kid, and he already fucked them over once by goin' back on that, but goddammit if this doesn't feel like abandoning his goddamn brother, leavin' Sammy behind, venerable, unprotected, something Dean swore, swore on everything he believes in, on everything that means anything or is anything or could be anything, that he would never do.

He's not leaving Sammy alone in here.

It's not until Sammy gives him another nudge, one that would be a push, a kick in the ass if they both weren't dead set on not freakin' this little serial killer out, spookin' him into pumpin' them both full of lead for twitchin' wrong, that Dean finally starts to waver, to listen.

And now Sammy's remindin' him of Max's mom, bleeding and broken in the kitchen, and how he's got to go look after her, and his mouth might be sayin' shit about what's-her-name, but his eyes are begging Dean, pleading him to trust Sam, to just _trust_ him, and Dean can read it off Sammy clear as day, that hard, desperate desire to have Dean just believe in him, just this once, and Dean believes in Sammy, he does, but this kid is a heartbeat from losing it and he's got live rounds, the mother of all twitchy fingers, and two kills under his belt already, so hell if Dean just takes off all quiet-like on this one, promise or no.

But then Sammy's got his jacket sleeve as the gun darts between the two of them, tugging like when he was a little kid, sneaking a couple fingers under the leather and plaid and tracing them across the scars on Dean's wrist, skimming along the silvery lines, mouthing 'Please,' as his eyes beg, beg for trust and faith as they silently invoke every goddamn thing they've been through together, demand that Dean do what they need him to for them to both make it through this, for everyone to get out alive.

"Dean," Sam's lips shape, silent, supplicating, "_please_."

For a long moment, Dean fights it. Fights the thought of leaving Sammy alone with this psychotic, murdering little shit, but he just keeps screwing things up with the kid, and he's actually listening to Sam and Sammy's eyes are telling him to go, that he's got this, that if Dean were ever, _ever_ gonna take the fucking training wheels off, now? Now when the spoonbending little murder factory has his ears on for Sam and only Sam? Now would be the time.

Preferably before anybody gets an extra hole to breathe out of.

…

Fine.

Fucking. Fine.

Sam wins.

But this shit goes south? Dean's gonna find some way to ice this psychotic little shit. Then he's gonna figure out how to raise the goddamn dead, not just so he can kill the little bastard again, but to serve his little brother up with the biggest fist full of "I Told You So" ever delivered on the face of the planet.

God, is he gonna hate this.

* * *

For all that Sam's wanted normal, wanted average, wanted to not be alone anymore, he never wanted this.

Never wanted to know that Max lived through what he did, that Max, for all that he had school and a yard and a life, had it worse.

God, so much worse…

And for a second, one brief second, Sam thinks that they can fix this. That they can get through it all together, that they can have answers and an escape and some help, help from each other, but Max…

He's sad and shaky and so, so convinced that the answers, the out, is killing Alice, scrubbing away all that's happened to him with blood and Sam knows, knows better than anyone, that's not gonna fix anything,

That killing the things in the dark doesn't mean they can't still haunt you.

And then he's losing Max, screaming and shouting as a fist he can't see knocks him on his ass and into the closet, sparking a vision that hits like a freight train the second Max traps him. It tears through Sam like a hurricane, like he's being ripped apart from the inside, sudden and violent and relentless as waves, flashes, hit, punch, tear the breath from him with each sharp slice, each sudden, relentless stab of what's to come, spike after spike driven right between his eyes.

Dean, dabbing at Alice's head, helping her sit up, his hands steady but thoughts racing, screaming, pounding through Sam's head, through Sam's veins, his brother's ears and thoughts and goddamn heart pinned downstairs in the living room, listening, waiting for some sign while he plays Florence fucking Nightingale that Sammy talked that little psycho down, that any second he's not gonna hear the sound of his baby brother being iced, execution style, with the gun he brought into this goddamn house.

Then suddenly there's Max, shaking, fierce, unsteady but determined, so angry and so tired and so, _so_ through with all of this goddamn shit, flinging the door open, throwing Dean into the wall so hard it gives, and Sam can feel it, can feel the plaster smash and the snap of the studs and the sharp, pained protest of his ribs, the grind of his spine, the sharp, aching agony of his knees crunching to the hardwood when Dean crashes to the floor, snaps his head up, battered, bleeding, but never broken, not Sam's brother, and he's ready to fight, ready to take this psychic freak down any way he needs to, but it's too late, because Max's armed, dangerous, descending with Dean's Colt in his grip, chrome gleaming in the afternoon light as he curls a shaking finger around the trigger, but Dean's all over the weakness, picking his stance apart, analyzing it, ready to spring forward, to snap that shaky goddamn trigger finger and knock those unsteady feet right out from under him, starting forward to do just that, to kick this freak's ass so hard the Psychic Friends feel it, because if Max is here, where the hell is his brother, but then Max's letting that weak grip, that shaky fear fall away, and Dean's gun is floating, cocking itself, steady and sure and with Dean square in its sights.

But that doesn't last long, because it's not Dean Max wants, not Dean who the gun stays on, who Max is aiming for now, not that that matters, because goddammit if Dean doesn't step with it, doesn't plant himself right between the barrel and Alice, shaking and frozen and faint, paralyzed with fear.

And Sam is Sam and Sam is Max and Sam is Dean, and he knows, can feel the decision in his brother, no regret, no fear, no hesitation, just knows Dean will sacrifice himself for this woman, this stranger, in an instant, in a heartbeat, because it's what he was raised to do, because it's the job, because there's no one else who can, and because _if Max is here, where the hell is Sammy? _

It has Sam doubling over, crying out, fighting against the waves in his head because he's himself, too and he's here, not there and what Dean's doing is stupid and wrong and suicidal and he can feel it all, his brother in his head, spilling over with determination that this woman, this innocent but not innocent bystander not die on their watch. but it's nothing, nothing compared to Sam's horror, his fear because he can feel Max too, knows what's coming next before he even sees it and no, no, NO—

He can't see this, can't watch it, can't stop it if it happens, couldn't stop the others, and if he can't stop this then that means his brother, means Dean's gonna—

Sam wants to close his eyes but he can't because it's not his eyes it's his head and he can't stop it, can't look away, can't do anything but feel the earth fall out from under his feet because Dean might be Sam's world but he's nothing to Max, less than nothing, Max who doesn't even need to lift a finger to squeeze the trigger, just _does_, and it's the loudest gunshot Sam's ever heard, louder than the shotguns or his Taurus or Dad's Desert Eagle, the shot screaming through him and over him and around him echoing and reverberating and tearing at him and suddenly the part of Sam that was Dean is gone, ripped away, and it burns out and leaves him hollow, full of Max and hate and emptiness, alone in his own head as he sees but doesn't see, will see, can't ever stop seeing that his brother isn't there anymore, isn't anywhere, is just a spray of blood against white-grey walls and the familiar, awful, horrifying thump of dead weight falling.

Of life leaving.

Of Sam's world ending.

But it won't end, never ends, is never gonna end, because then, like the vision's punishing him, twisting the knife just to hear him scream a little louder, the pain ratchets up and the next wave hits and the next flash is Dean, sightless eyes and slack mouth and blood running, dripping, falling from one perfect, horrifying hole, and it sticks, stays, grinds into Sam, salt in a wound, blood screaming in his veins, fingers, prying his eyes open and making him look, forcing him to watch, to see Dean, dead and gone before he can stop it, just like Max's dad, just like his uncle, just like Jess all over again, everything Sam loves in the world, empty and cold and bloody and too late, Sam's always too late, always.

But not this time.

Not again.

Because this isn't some fucking civilian, some nameless, faceless fucking nobody whose ass it's their lot in life to save, this is Dean.

Dean.

This is Sam's brother, his reason to get up in the morning and his safety net closing his eyes at night and the only thing he's got, the only reason he has to keep fucking eating and sleeping and breathing, so Sam grabs onto the vision, the pain, the power, the motherfucking force, whatever the hell it is that's shoving and tearing through him, that's grinding Dean, cold and dead and gone, into his eyeballs, and he shoves it, pushes, fucking punches it out with all of that rage and pain and frustration at seeing, seeing, always seeing but never saving, with everything he is and they are, with all that Dean is to him, could ever be to him, with everything that would die with that goddamn bullet, that Sam cannot, cannot, exist in this world without, and when it's out and away there's suddenly light, light in his eyes and air in his face and closet doors that aren't so much door but splinters, hinges, frames for a cabinet that's a hell of a lot more like busted china and woodchips scattered all over the living room, and Sam has no time for this, no time for the shock and dizziness, no time for the weakness in his legs or the sweat running down his face, because Dean and Max and there's time, he could have time.

He has to have time.

…

But it turns out, even with time, even with time and Dean safe and warm and breathing beneath his fingers, Sam can't save everyone.

Can't do anything but watch as Max falls to the floor.

Can't help but feel like, vision or no, he just saw his own end play out. A sad, bloody glimpse of what's to come.

* * *

After, he and Sammy herd Alice away from the body in silence, spoon-feed her a story the cops'll swallow, one that explains away them and the gun and the shards of door and cabinet radiating out from the closet, and you better believe that Dean's getting the full story on that one at a later goddamn date, but for right now, there's prints to wipe and stories to rehearse and a scared, shaking woman who's all alone in the world, so they've got goddamn work to do.

But so help him, if Dean finds out Max did something to Sam, something with his freak-ass powers and that fucking furniture, he'll cash in every chip he's got with every hoodoo magic man this side of the Mississippi just so he can bring that spoonbending bastard back and make him pay.

The cops are patsies, two-bit uniforms who ask the routine questions and write in their little notebooks and take Sam and Dean's patently false contact information with tin badge imitations of intimidating glares.

Clearly their trumped-up explanation for Max, for the cabinet and Alice and the haunted, horrified look in her eyes doesn't fly without a little shake in the wings, but it gets them out of the house, buys them enough time to head for the hotel and safety and the state line, no one looks too close.

Or it would, if Sam didn't wrap his goddamn gorilla arms around Dean the second the motel door shuts behind them, which pretty much sets off every alarm bell Dean has, because Sam knows the drill after a case, especially one that ends with cops and witness statements and 'We'll need you to stay in town for a few days.'

And this?

This has way too much shaking, way too much hitched breath and desperate squeezing and shivery, shaky relief for this to be anything but a Big Goddamn Breakdown Hug, and goddammit, they need to get the hell out of here, but Dean's going right the hell along with it because Sam had Dean's fucking gun aimed at him a couple hours ago, some fucked up little psycho about ready to GTA out his fucked up family life with Dean's baby brother's skull and hell, _hell_ if Dean can just shake that off like it's nothing, like with the wrong move, Sam wouldn't be gone right now, and it'd've been all Dean's fault, and if this is anything, anything like Sammy felt after that motherfucking asylum, Dean is a royal shit of a human being for coming down on him for it.

"Hey, hey," he murmurs as Sam shakes, digs his face into Dean's collar and just holds on, clinging to leather and flannel for dear life, and Dean gets it, he does, can't help but wind his fingers into Sammy's hair and drag him that much closer because his brother, tense and not moving and square in Max's sights, that's something that's gonna stick with Dean for a hell of a long time, Winchester levels of repression or no. "S'alright, Sammy. It's okay. We're okay."

And the sad, miserable little laugh that leaks out of Sam, shakes him in Dean's arms with hot, damp puffs of breath muffled against his neck, has every big brother instinct in Dean kicking into overdrive, getting his hands on Sammy's shoulders and holding him at arm's length and reflexively checking every goddamn inch of his little brother for whatever the hell that little psycho did to him that got him like this.

"Max," Sam gets out, reading Dean's silent demand for an explanation. "The cabinet—"

"Yeah. Little freak went Scanners on it," Dean interrupts tersely, impatient for the pertinent fucking info. "What's—"

"That was me, Dean!" Sam cuts him off, shoving a hand through his hair as he breaks out of Dean's grip to pace the length of the hotel room. "He shoved me in the closet, had it over the door, but a vision hit. I saw what he was gonna do to you, saw you die, and suddenly the doors, the cabinet- they just… just weren't there anymore."

Dean blinks. Takes it in.

Holy crap.

"Explode this," Dean demands, only half-joking as he tosses a pillow at Sam.

Sure, Sammy pulling a Death Star on ugly-ass furniture is definitely further out of their comfort zone than the visions, but come on- it just saved both their bacon in a major way.

Sam's fine, he's _fine_, so they can put off the emo bitching and moaning about Sammy's bump up the spoonbending ladder until they get across the state line, right?

"Dean—" Sam bitchfaces, spiking the pillow into the abandoned piles of research on the listing motel desk. "This isn't a joke. What came out of me- It was like a punch, Dean, like everything I feel when I have a vision, but more, and I saw you die, saw him shoot you, and I couldn't- I just couldn't and everything just—"

"Exploded?" Dean finishes, nodding. "So, wanna take some watermelons out in the woods? Maybe knock over a bank vault?"

"Dean," Sammy glares at him, clearly not seeing the good times that could be had with this newest toy in his bag of psychic tricks.

"Okay, we'll make sure it's a haunted bank vault," he shrugs, only half joking as he turns to stuff yesterday's jeans in his duffle.

"Dean, I could hurt someone with this," Sam bites out from behind him, voice tight, tense. "Become like Max."

"That's never gonna happen," Dean throws back over his shoulder with a glare, suddenly, sharply serious.

"Yeah, because our lives aren't just as fucked up as his was?" Sam scoffs, shoving a hand through his hair, and there's a twist to his mouth, a wry, desperate hopelessness that has Dean dropping his packing, turning to face Sammy. "Because we don't spend half our lives scared, fighting, getting the shit kicked out of us? Watching the people we love die? Yeah, I'm nothing like him at all, am I?"

Dean can see it, can see Sam working to swallow the tears, can see his little brother trying and failing to swallow down the fear, the panic all of this has rising in him.

"Got Mom killed," Sam shrugs helplessly, eyes spilling over and chin crumpling. "Got Jess killed. Almost got you killed. Hell, toss in the alcoholic father and psychic powers, and Max and I are practically twins, Dean!"

"So tell me," Sam grinds out, anger, frustration rising, swallowing the sadness, the fear, "tell me what's gonna keep me from doing what he did? From letting these powers take over, turn me into some sort of monster?"

"Me," Dean snaps, striding into Sam's space. "You got me. That's not gonna happen to you 'cause I'm not gonna fucking let it."

"Dean," Sam shakes his head, hopeless and unconvinced and defeated, but Dean doesn't let him get any further than that, grabs his shoulder and gets a hand on his neck, his jaw, forces the kid to meet his eye.

"Sammy," he starts, keeping his hand on his brother, on the fight-or-flight flutter of Sam's pulse beneath his fingers, "I get that this has you scared, I do. I get that's it a hell of a lot to deal with, but we'll deal with it. We'll figure it out, you and me. You're not Max. You're not alone. And you're not a monster. Never gonna be."

And God, the way Sammy sags into him when he says that, the relief that sweeps through him, has him tipping forward, twisting long, shaking fingers in the fabric of his shirt as he buries his face in Dean's collar, exhales shaky relieved breaths against his neck, it turns Dean's stomach, almost makes him sick with it all, because this? This is what's been at the edges of his baby brother's mind? What's been eating him since this whole vision thing started up?

Jesus Christ.

It's got Dean holding Sam that much closer, that much firmer, arms like iron and fingers digging in, proving the only way he's got that he's here, not going anywhere, that Sam is his brother, not a killer or a monster or anything but good, but the best part of Dean's damn life.

"Come on," he smacks Sam on the back after a long moment, after they both have enough time to breathe, to get some solid ground beneath their feet after all this shit. "We hit the road now, we'll make Atlantic City by morning, use your new party trick to clean us out some craps tables."

And Sam's answering smile is weak, exhausted and exasperated and half-hidden in Dean's jacket, but it's there.

It's something to hold on to.


End file.
